


it's quiet uptown

by starblessed



Series: everything you ever want, everything you ever need [5]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Bad Parenting, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Not A Fix-It, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: When Anne found Phillip hunched at his desk, eyes boring into the pristine white page of a letter, she knew that something had come up to disrupt the happy little life they've created.“My mother’s sick,” Phillip told her. He passed the letter to Anne’s waiting hands, and seemed grateful to be rid of it. “Her heart is acting up again. It’s always been a problem, but it sounds like it’s getting worse…”The letter was a short, impersonal thing. There was no affection hidden in the impeccable script and embellished signature. It could be summed up in two sentences:Your mother is sick. If you care, come see her.It was technically an invitation.(Ten years later, the Carlyle family visits Phillip's parents.)





	it's quiet uptown

**Author's Note:**

> here i am writing an absurdly long future fic set in my parents!au, and continuing with my blatant hamilton naming theme. try and stop me.
> 
> "phillip, you would like it uptown, it's quiet uptown..." (sorry)

Anne always tries to do the best thing for her children.

She is not a perfect mother, by any means. She can be strict; she dislikes untidiness, and has little patience for finding toys underfoot; she is not a natural storyteller, so playing fantastical games never comes as naturally to her as it does Phillip. Sometimes, she has a hard time relating to their boundless little imaginations. Anne knows that she is the disciplinarian in the household, and that’s fine by her. She also knows that she is close with her children, despite whatever flaws she might have as a parent.

She loves her kids. They love her back, and that’s the most important thing.

Ten years have more or less taught them the biggest ins-and-outs of parenting. They’re not amateurs anymore, and actually consider themselves pretty good at the whole thing.

Anne knows that she would do anything for her children. And, for the most part, she does. She dresses them, feeds them, teaches them to read and write and think for themselves. She washes their faces in the mirror every morning and tells them how proud they should be of their beautiful skin. She makes sure they learned the value of hard work. They always know they are loved.

The lesson she emphasizes the most, though, is the most important: she tells her children that they never have to be afraid of anything.

“Nobody can tell you how to live your life but you,” she recites while braiding her daughter’s thick hair. “Anybody who tries doesn’t know how strong you are. You always remember that.”

“You’re stronger than me, Mamma,” Cleo points out, her tiny fingers moving through her doll’s hair in tandem with Anne’s own. “That’s cause you’re bigger.”

“No matter how big anybody is,” Anne tells her, “the minute they realize they can’t scare you, they’re the small one.”

She doesn’t ever want her babies to live the same way she did: afraid to take risks because of what the consequences could be. She doesn’t want them to feel like they have to live their lives in fear. She wants them to be brave.

Of course, Anne knows it is impossible to shelter her children from the world’s harsh reality. The circus grounds have proved a wonderful, open minded place for them to grow up, but the world outside is always present. There will _always_ be people who judge them for their family, and the color of their skin. This is the truth of reality. Anne’s had to live with it, the same way her own parents did, and her children will.

She’s determined that no one should ever find fault with her children for their _characters._ Anne and Phillip both work hard to help their children be the best they can be. Whether it’s encouraging them to keep their minds open, not to judge others, or just have manners — she’s raising her kids the way her parents raised her. To be _good,_ in all the ways that count.

For Anne, the most important part of that is making sure they know they never have to be afraid of those who judge them. Not only that — but they should never change themselves for anyone.

Now she can’t help but wonder if she’s about to forsake everything she’s worked so hard to teach them.

* * *

 

Anne’s hand closes around a thin shoulder, and her son freezes in his tracks. She spins Will around, eyes already narrowed as she takes in the rumpled jacket he wears.

“How many times have I fixed this?” she mutters, straightening out the little suit again. “Boy, you mess with this jacket one more time and next time you’ll be picking out your own clothes.”

“That might be better,” Will says — then grunts when Anne wipes a smudge of dirt off his nose. (The boy could wind up covered with dirt in a snowstorm.) “I wouldn’t have to wear any more monkey suits.”

“It’s a very _nice_ monkey suit,” Anne replies, “and not a cheap one. Don’t play with it.”

“Cleo’s been tugging at her dress all morning!”

Anne’s attention turns to her younger child. Cleo is stopped ahead at the lamppost, her hand laced with her father’s own. They must have been waiting, but clearly got bored along the way. Cleo’s neck is craned back, pointing at something above their heads. Just as interested, Phillip blinks up at the lamppost, then lifts up his daughter to give her a better look.

Anne fights the urge to roll her eyes. Sometimes she wonders if she’s got three children instead of two.

“Your sister knows I made her that dress myself,” she says, a little louder than necessary. “And if something happens to it, she can go back to wearing hand-me-downs.”

Sheepish, Phillip sets his daughter back down on the sidewalk. Cleo’s new shoes gleam against the pavement, black and shiny. Her hair is arranged in artful twin braids; large eyes glitter in a heart-shaped face, too clever for a six year old. The pink fabric of her dress stands in contrast to her rich sepia skin.

(It was a source of endless amusement to Phillip that their two children look so vastly different. While William inherited his mother’s eyes, dark and smoky, his complexion is more in line with his father. Walking down the street, it’s easy to see that they’re related, and Will could almost pass for a white boy if someone didn’t care to look closely. Cleo is dark, though — blessed with beautiful brown curls, and skin as rich as her mother’s. The only thing she took from her father were his eyes, bright little saucers which she loves fluttering to great effect. Their children are different, but they’re both _beautiful._ Anne loves them more than all the stars in the sky.)

“I won’t mess it up, Mamma,” Cleo swears, standing up a little straighter. “Promise.”

“She’ll be good.” Phillip is always quick to stand by his favorite girl’s side — even if that means his _other_ favorite girl has to play the strict parent. “There will be no dress-tearing on our watch, will there, Cleo?”

Cleo giggles and shakes her head, swinging her hand in her father’s own.

Anne rolls her eyes, but can’t help smiling. Sometimes she’s amazed at how lucky she’s gotten.

“Alright,” she sighs. Finally, Will is deemed presentable. She lets him go and turns back to her family. “C’mon now. We’re not going to be late.”

This is their first time visiting, and Anne is determined to make a good impression. That’s why they’re all dressed up in their best, tromping through the streets like a family of show ponies. Usually they wouldn’t go to such lengths (a simple dinner at the Barnums would never warrant a new dress, for instance)… but, well, these are special circumstances.

“You’re right,” Phillip agrees. He reaches out, and Anne slips her hand into his own. He offers her a small, tense smile. “My parents always appreciated punctuality.” 

* * *

 

Part of Anne would’ve been very happy to never have anything to do with Phillip’s parents ever again, thank you very much.

She’s well aware how _that_ family drama ended; she saw it get ugly firsthand. Phillip’s unhappiness from his society upbringing has mostly faded, but some scars still linger. Anne would understand if Phillip never wanted to forgive his parents for disowning him.

Another part of her isn’t sure she could live with herself if things ended that way.

She knows, of course, that the Carlyle family’s falling out was by no means her fault. It was a storm brewing for a long time, rife with years of increasing bitterness and isolation, venomous arguments, and drowning sorrows in alcohol. Anne needs to look no further than Phillip’s plays to see how low he had been feeling just before joining the circus. Everything he wrote during that time period was marked by tragedy. Now, on the infrequent occasions he picks up a pen, his writing is filled with adventure and magic.

(To be fair, he’s no longer writing for imperious audiences, but for the delight of a six year old. His demographics have shifted; but so has the tone of his stories. Now writing is something he can find joy in.)

After Phillip’s split from his parents, everything changed for him. He found a new family — one that accepted him for who he was, and helped him grow to be better. The circus became all of their families, of course; but the Barnums also welcomed Phillip with open arms. Of course, he also fell in love with Anne.

He hadn’t spoken a word to his parents in ten years. In that time, Phillip’s world has changed in too many ways to count. He and Anne have begun a family all their own, and life…

Life is beautiful.

So when Anne found Phillip hunched at his desk, eyes boring into the pristine white page of a letter, she knew that something had come up. Something ready to disrupt their happy little life.

“My mother’s sick,” Phillip told her (after no small amount of coaxing). He passed the letter to Anne’s waiting hands, and seemed grateful to be rid of it. “Her heart is acting up again. It’s always been a problem, but it sounds like it’s getting worse…”

The letter was a short, impersonal thing. There was no affection hidden in the impeccable script and embellished signature. It could be summed up in two sentences: _Your mother is sick. If you care, come see her._

It was technically an invitation.

Phillip didn’t want to go. Even now, strolling down the street in his best suit and tails, he looks like a kid dragging his feet. It was Anne who urged everyone along. Anne sent a reply letter, telling Phillip’s parents when to expect them. Anne made Cleo her dress, found a nice suit for Will, forced her children’s perpetually messy hair and scuffed knees into submission. Anne helped Phillip straighten his bow tie, promised that, _“yes,_ your suit still fits, it hasn’t been that long”, and took his hand when he hesitated at their front door.

Because Anne has no affection for Phillip’s parents, but she’s also lived through losing her own. She knows the void they leave inside your heart. After losing your parents, it’s like a part of you is gone, and the world is never really the same. Phillip might not love the people his parents are, but he loved them once. She sees it in his smile whenever he remembers gardening with his mother, or the wistful look on his face when he plays the piano. Part of him will always be a rich little boy from Manhattan, and that boy loved his mother and father.

So if seeing them again will fill the tiny void in Phillip’s heart, Anne will support him any way that she can. 

* * *

 

There is nothing remarkable about their reception to the Carlyle’s estate.

There is no fanfare, no gilded carpet rolled out for their arrival. No one waits to greet them at the door. Only a sallow-faced old butler answers after the third bellow of the ancient doorknocker. His eyes land on Anne first, and his face sours; then his attention drifts to Phillip, and he grimaces even more. Phillip, to his credit, looks just as pleased to see him.

“Kingston,” he greets in a cool, pleasant voice (the same voice he uses when charming sponsors at parties and politely asking protestors to leave the circus grounds before they’re escorted out). “Wonderful to see you again.”

“It has been a very long time, Master Phillip.” Kingston clearly doesn’t return the sentiment. Nevertheless, he opens the door wider. Anne takes the first step over the threshold, and feels a bolt of wicked satisfaction to think she might be the first colored person to step through the Carlyle’s front door, instead of the servant’s entrance. She leads the children after her, following behind like baby ducks. At the end of the line is Phillip, the most reluctant duckling of them all.

Kingston abandons them in the foyer under the pretence of “going to fetch Mr. Carlyle”. Left alone, Anne steels herself, and tries not to let her surroundings creep under her skin. It’s no easy task.

The Carlyle home is vast and lavish, with gilded ceilings that tower high above their visitor’s heads. A long staircase ascends upwards and out of sight; intricate paintings of long-dead forebears hang on the walls. A vase of flowers, slightly wilted, stands on a center table; they do nothing to add color to the room. Everything is dark, cold and aloof. It is nothing like their warm home, or the lively atmosphere of the circus. Here, no energy courses through the rooms; the windows have forgotten how to let in the sun. This is no place for living creatures.

Cleo shifts uncomfortably in her starchy dress. She’s trying to make herself smaller, shrinking next to Anne like she can hide away in her shadow. “I don’t like this, Mamma.”

Anne places a hand on the back of her head. “Hush, baby,” she whispers.

It kills her to silence her daughter’s discomfort, because she feels exactly the same way.  
Everything about this place is inhospitable and unwelcoming. They’re not wanted here. From the walls, to the floors, to the invisible eyes that seem to linger on their every movement… the very house holds their presence in contempt.

Will has his shoulders straight, trying to be stronger than he feels. (He gets that from his mother, according to Phillip.) Anne tries to mirror her son’s stance. There is nothing to be intimidated by, she reminds herself; if things go poorly, they can leave. (Never mind what that will do to Phillip, how it puts ten years of progress getting over his past in jeopardy, how it’ll hurt him…) Unwillingly, her gaze is drawn to her husband.

In the house of his childhood once again, Phillip doesn’t look dazed, or melancholy, or any of the reactions Anne would have expected from him. He looks downright _sick._ There’s a pale tint to his skin, and his entire body suggests he’s one strong wind away from falling over. His jaw is set with tension. Wide eyes dart around the place he used to call home, searching out phantoms in the shadows.

Wordlessly, Anne reaches out and takes his hand. Phillip is startled for all of a second; then he gives it a fierce squeeze back.

Suddenly, at the top of the landing, a figure really does appear. There are no footsteps to precede them. One second, the top of the stairs is empty; and the next, Cleo’s sharp gasp alerts Anne that they are no longer alone. She lifts her head, only to be met with cold eyes set in a stern face. The man is aged, but familiar.

“Mr. Carlyle,” she says. Phillip goes tense beside her. “It’s a pleasure.”

For a long moment, Mr. Carlyle is quiet. Anne sees him take in the four of them: from Cleo, with her wide eyes and openly curious expression, to Will, such a close mirror of his father. When his gaze lands on Anne, she stares right back. She will not be daunted by an old man who spat vitriol at her many years before.

“You must be Anne Wheeler,” Phillip’s father says at last.

“It’s been a long time since I went by that name,” Anne demurs. “I’m a Carlyle now. Have been for close to a decade.”

She sees these words strike the old man like a blow. He draws back, quick enough that Anne almost doesn’t catch it, and his lips twist like he wants to spit something venomous back at her -- but he refrains. He may not be able to stand a black woman bearing his family name, but he won’t cause a scene now. This is important: it lets Anne know just how much ground they have to stand on. At once, she feels calmer than she has all day.

She takes a few steps forward, leading her daughter by one hand. Her other slips out of Phillip’s; he needs to stand before his father on his own. “Thank you for the invitation,” she says, and sees Mr. Carlyle’s face twitch once more.

“My wife is gravely ill. The doctors say she may not have much time left. I thought it was high time our son to paid us a visit, in case he does not get another chance.”

“That’s funny,” Phillip finally speaks up. Anne can’t see his face, but his voice -- stony and frigid as winter on the docks -- says it all. “The last time we spoke, you declared you don’t have a son.”

Something else flashes in Mr. Carlyle’s eyes. For a moment, Anne can’t believe it; it doesn’t seem possible. She convinces herself that she’s wrong for all of a second before it dawns on her that she _can’t_ be. She knows Phillip too well. She’s become fluent in him. She’s learned to read all his thoughts on his face, all the emotions that flash through his highly-expressive eyes… and Phillip got his eyes from his father.

Mr. Carlyle, she realizes, is doing a poor job of masking his regret.

He makes no attempt to apologize. Anne wouldn’t have expected him to. (Carlyle men, after all, cling to their pride like lemurs.) Instead, he pulls away from the stair railing and turns. “If you wish to see your mother,” the old man says, “she’s in her sunroom.”

He leaves them alone again. The Carlyles, Anne thinks, are very poor hosts. Maybe she’s been spoiled by the warm hospitality of the Barnum household; but she knows for a fact that she could do much better for any visitors to her own house. You don’t leave guests to fend for themselves.

She takes another look around the desolate house and frowns. The Carlyles do not seem to have had any visitors for a very long time.

“Well?” she says, turning to crook an eyebrow at Phillip. Now that his father has gone, the nauseous look on his face has returned. “We could leave.”

“No,” Phillip says immediately. As soon as the word leaves his mouth, he seems to regret it; but he pushes on. “No. We’ve come this far. I’d… I’d like to see my mother.”

“You’re doing great, Dad,” Will says in a quiet voice. “We’re proud of you.”

A rush of love for her empathetic son sweeps over Anne in an instant. She smiles at Will, then smiles at Phillip, taking his hand and pulling it to her chest. “So proud,” she affirms. “And we’re right here with you.”

Phillip looks at her before his gaze roves to their two children. He seems to reorient himself; he remembers how much time has passed, how life has moved on for them. He has so much more now than his parents ever did.

There is nothing to be afraid of.

He squeezes Anne’s hand back before pulling away, squaring his shoulders. “Right,” he says, looking up the stairs. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

For a “sunroom”, Mrs. Carlyle’s abode is downright gloomy.

The room is draped in violet; the wallpaper is a rich lavender gilded with gold, the boudoir is masked with a heavy damask, and violet curtains are pinned back from the windows, letting sun filter through their dusty frames. This does nothing to brighten the room. Shadows still drape themselves over every spare space, as much at home as the musty scent of lavender in the air, and the old woman sitting in a chair by the window.

Unlike with Phillip’s father, Anne’s memories of Mrs. Carlyle do not match up with the woman herself. The once-proud, regal lady has gone grey. She wears little makeup, only white face-powder and neutral lipstick. There is no spark in her eyes when she sees Anne in the doorway. She shows neither hatred nor welcome.

“You’re the negro girl,” are the first words out of her mouth. Something inside of Anne shrivels up and dies.

“Anne,” she corrects, forcing the displeasure off her face. “Your son’s wife.”

Mrs. Carlyle’s face twists at that too; but she manages to keep her displeasure admirably contained. “Of course. Anne.”

Anne takes a step into the room, followed by her family. First comes Will, dragging hesitant feet. Then Cleo, gaping at the relic in the room with open curiosity. Finally, Phillip steps into the light.

Finally, the old woman’s face lights up. It is like the sun breaking through a canvas of stormclouds. Life returns to her; all at once, she looks ten years younger. “Phillip,” she says, voice caressing the name like a prayer.

Phillip looks like he’s seeing a ghost. A vulnerable young boy stands in the shadow of the man he has become; Anne sees him flicker in and out between the two, not quite sure where he belongs.

“Hello, mother,” he says in a low voice.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything more. Quiet stretches between them like a canyon, too vast and perilous to attempt to breach. Anne aches to say something, but the silence chokes her.

“Children! You have children?”

Finally, a break in the sheen of ice that held the entire room paralyzed. Mrs. Carlyle’s eyes are fixed on her two youngest visitors, as if noticing them for the first time. She looks amazed.

Cleo, as always, is at her father’s side. Phillip reaches out blindly, like a man searching for a lifeboat in open water, and finds her. “This is my daughter,” he says, nudging her forward. “Cleopatra Rose. We call her Cleo.”

(The name had been Phillip’s idea. After fighting him so hard for Will’s name, Ann didn’t have the energy to battle over their daughter as well. Once a writer, always a writer, she supposes. At least Phillip gave up on the idea of naming their first daughter _Desdemona. Cleopatra_ seems like a fair compromise, since Anne’s always loved the name _Cleo.)_

But Mrs. Carlyle says “Cleopatra”, caressing the name with her lips as if savoring every syllable. Her eyes are fixed raptly on her youngest grandchild. Cleo looks a little lost under the scrutiny, but hold herself tall and offers a smile.

At last, warmth filters into the old woman’s face -- like a flicker of candlelight, hesitant to become an inferno. “What a charming little girl.”

Slowly, she reaches out and takes Cleo’s hand in her own. Anne is struck by the contrast between her daughter’s small, delicate fingers, and her mother-in-law’s wrinkled paws. Cleo endures the tough, more curious than uncomfortable now, and experimentally runs a finger over the back of Mrs. Carlyle’s hand.

“You’re my Grandmama, you know,” she says.

Mrs. Carlyle nods. She inhales a heavy breath. “And you’re my son’s daughter.” Her head tilts to the side. “My _granddaughter._ How extraordinary.”

She could never have imagined, surely, that her grandchild would be a tiny girl with frizzy curls and skin the color of autumn leaves. Ten years ago, Anne wonders if Mrs. Carlyle wouldn’t have shoved Cleo away. Certainly she never would have allowed Anne into this house, even as her son’s wife. Is it age that’s mellowed her? Ill health? The passing of years?

(Or perhaps she hasn’t really changed at all, and this is just a strange mirage that will shatter in moments, like a fragile mirror.)

Phillip is encouraged by his mother’s reception. He is more exuberant, allowing his pride to shine through, when he turns to his next child. “And my son, William.”

The old lady’s mouth drops open. She looks blown off her feet. The sight of Phillip’s son — with the same chin, same hair, same brilliant grin — strikes her like a knife between the ribs.

“How old are you, William?” she asks, eyes wide. Will hesitates a second before answering.

“Almost ten, ma’am.”

(This is a lie. He turned nine a few months ago. Anne prods him in the back, and he stands up straighter.)

Melancholy flashes across Mrs. Carlyle’s face. She turns her head away. “So old,” she remarks, brows furrowed. “They’re both so old already.”

(Cleo preens. She likes to be seen as older than she is, especially since she’s small for her age.)

“I’ve missed so much,” Mrs. Carlyle murmurs.

Phillip recoils, jaw dropping open. He looks like he’s been struck; the wounded expression on his face hits Anne like a blow between her own ribs. Guilt, remorse, and anger flash across Phillip’s face all at once, the boom of thunder before a storm. Anne’s hands automatically drift to her childrens’ shoulders.

“Why don’t we give you two a moment?” she suggests. Phillip opens his mouth to protest, but she’s already leading the family away. She knows when Phillip needs to get something off his chest. If he doesn’t have a moment with his mother alone he’ll never be at peace, and might break under the pressure of all the things left unsaid.

Anne has never been prouder of him. She’s never been more worried. She has to believe he’ll be okay.

They step into the hallway and the door slams shut behind them. 

* * *

 

Left alone with his mother, Phillip isn’t sure what to say.

A part of him longs to run after his family, and drag them back in here again. Another part, even more a remnant of the anxious, troubled schoolboy he was, wishes he could follow them away. He doesn’t want to be here; he doesn’t want to face this. It’s been ten years, and he should be able to leave it all behind him.

Yet somehow here he is, staring into the aged, wan face of the woman he used to call mother.

His mother looks melancholy, and fond. She’s always been fond of him, even when he least deserved it. He remembers whiskey-fueled tirades in the middle of his parents’ parlor; shattering wine glasses at dinner and leaving the maids to clean them up; hissing vitriol at his parents, cursing them for their “callous superficiality”. His father was always the one to snap back; “ungrateful,” he said, and for all Phillip didn’t realize his own privilege at the time, he may well have been right. His mother was not one for furious outbursts. She was all wary gazes, close-lipped smiles, sharp nails locked on Phillip’s shoulder as she guided him out of the public eye.

If Phillip’s father was the sharp end of an axe, his mother was a subtle poison. They were both equally deadly; yet one Phillip couldn’t help caring for.

Even now, he can not look at his mother’s face and feel hatred. With his father, it’s easy. The bad memories there are still as sharp as the day he lived them. There are enough good memories with his mother, however, that they almost balance out the bad.

Almost.

(He remembers her on his doorstep not long after he stepped into the role of ringmaster. How she begged him to come back; hissing the words “that circus” and “that negro girl” as if they were something vile. As if they were what had corrupted her golden, gracious boy, twisted him into something unrecognizable overnight.

The truth was, Phillip had grown twisted long before Barnum stepped in. The circus was just what straightened him out.)

His mother gestures for him to sit down on the divan next to her. Her hand is white and gnarled, like tissue paper stretched thin over bone. She looks smaller than he can ever remember her. His mother was never frail; she was never weak. In some ways, Phillip can hardly believe this is his mother at all.

He sits. A smile stretches across her pale lips.

“Remember the butterfly gardens, Phillip?”

The memory hits him like a stab to the chest. He remembers the butterfly gardens, of course. How could he forget? He remembers his childhood, laughing with his mother in their favorite garden. He still hears the combined melody of their laughter as she chased him amongst the bushes and trees. He sees each blossom in his mind’s eye as his mother murmured their names in her low, sure voice. He feels the gentle brush of a butterfly landing atop his finger; and his mother’s breath against his ear as she whispered, _“stay still, don’t be afraid.”_

He doesn’t remember when the visits to the garden stopped. Maybe it was when Phillip was sent to boarding school. Maybe it was before that, the day his father realized that his wife was teaching their son to be “unmanly”. Maybe his mother was the one that stopped them, all on her own -- because she grew bored with him, as she did with so many other things.

Anne put it best: “Sometimes the nicest memories are the ones that hurt the most, once all the happiness is gone.”

He wishes he didn’t remember the butterfly gardens.

His mother is old now, though; and she’s sick. The open bottle of medicine on her vanity table is testament enough to that. In fact, Phillip has never seen his mother look this unwell. It seems as if all the life has left her. He finds it hard to recall what she looked like when she was well and happy, confronted with this faded pantomime of her.

So he just nods, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “Yes, Mother,” he says. “I remember the gardens.”

His mother stares at him for a long time. She appears listless, unfocused; as if she does not have the energy to look at him for longer than a few seconds. When she raises her hand to touch his cheek, he freezes. He remains stiff under the brush of her fingers. After a few seconds, she draws back, not making a sound.

When Phillip meets her eyes again, he’s shocked to find them brimming with tears.

“You’ve grown into such a handsome man.”

He doesn’t know what to say. That his waistline isn’t as trim as it once was, or that he’s starting to get wrinkles around his eyes? That he’s convinced he’s beginning to grow grey, as much as Anne tells him he’s being ridiculous? That his mother has missed some of the prime years of his life because of her own vicious pride?

Phillip keeps his mouth shut, even as his mother reaches out to take his hand. Gently, pointedly, he pulls away.

“Oh, Phillip,” she says in a small voice. “Can you ever forgive us?

His head jerks up again. The question is like a bolt of electricity coursing through his system. He feels the breath fly from his lungs all at once. His mother continues to stare at him like he has all the answers she needs to here. It is as if, for her, he has come back from the dead.

The realization is sour. More than anything else, it reminds Phillip of what he’s known this entire time: his parents rejected him.

“I don’t know if I can,” he answers honestly.

As soon as the words leave him, it’s like they take all the tension with them. Everything that’s been weighing on his shoulders since receiving that fateful letter in the mail vanishes all at once. He feels light again. He remembers how to breathe.

He doesn’t know if he can forgive his parents; he’s not sure he wants to. They hurt him in more ways that he could count. They controlled him, repressed him, disrespected him, criticized him. When he finally found the nerve to go out and find himself, to be who he was meant to be… they disowned him. His family cut him off, and made it clear that they didn’t want to see him again. They hurt him so much that Phillip was sure he never wanted them back in his life.

Even now, he doesn’t know if that’s changed.

He doesn’t want to hurt his mother, but he isn’t sure he can forgive everything she’s done. He isn’t sure he wants her back in his life.

His mother sees all this, and hears all that goes unsaid. Her face falls. At once, she closes herself off, frosting over like the perfect society woman ought to. The warmth fades from her face. She won’t show it again; it’s too painful for them both.

“I understand,” she replies. She presses his hand once, then lets him go. “I understand, Phillip.”

It’s the first time his mother has ever said those words to him.

Phillip doesn’t pause to think of what this might mean. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, before turning and walking out of the room. His mother is left behind; he looks back only once, to see her staring after him with mournful eyes.

When the door closes behind him, it is a relief. 

* * *

 

Phillip storms down the stairs in a flurry of tailcoats and hasty footsteps. He does not look angry as he brushes past her. Instead, he wears that peculiar look on his face again, as if he’s come eye-to-eye with a ghost.

“I’m ready to go now,” he announces. “It’s time.”

“Already?”

“Yes.” Phillip doesn’t look back at her. Gently, he takes Cleo’s hand in his own, pulling her away from the bust she’d been studying in the corner of the room. When he whispers something to her, she smiles; together, they make a break for the front door.

Anne can only gape after her husband in surprise, wondering just what happened. What could he have said? Did his conversation with his mother upset him so much -- or is this a new sort of restlessness, an aching realization that only distance can cure?

She exchanges a baffled look with Will, and sighs. She really has to take care of everything.

“Alright. I’m going to wish your mother goodbye.”

Phillip is already out the door, so she can’t be sure he even heard her.

Sighing, Anne extends a hand to her son. William eyes it like she’s just offered him a dead fish; he wants to go back up there as much as Anne does. At least in the foyer, escape is only a few feet away. You do not feel swallowed up by this house, in its absence of light and warmth. It does not feel like it’s draining the life right out of you.

This, Anne decides, is why they have to go back. Just for a moment. Just to say goodbye to a woman who might not deserve it.

“If it were you, you’d wish someone would,” she says. That’s all it takes for Will to slowly reach out and take her hand.

They wind their way up the steep staircase slowly, mindful of every rut in the oriental carpet, every creak in the ancient floorboards. Will lets out a noise of alarm when they emerge into the upstairs hallway, only to spot a shadowed figure looming at the end of the hall.

“Mr. Carlyle.” Anne nods her head, undaunted. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Mr. Carlyle says nothing. He only sighs, a deep sound that seems to come from within his very soul. A few seconds later, he slips through a nearby doorway and vanishes.

Anne grips Will’s hand a little harder as they make their way back to the sunroom. She can not help the way her eyes roam down the spacious, drafty hallway. This was the palace of Phillip’s childhood. This was where he played, slept, grew up. Surely it was not such a foreboding place when he lived here.

(The Carlyles don’t have any other children. Perhaps when they abandoned Phillip, they also lost the brightest spark of life they had left.)

She takes a few steps through the doorway before pausing. Mrs. Carlyle has a hand pressed to her face. Her shoulders heave with silent sobs; she has been weeping for a while.

Anne was prepared for a lot of things, but not to find the mother-in-law who can’t stand her crying as she watches her son vanish down the street. Will’s hand tightens around hers, panicked. Awkwardly, Anne clears her throat.

“Umm, Mrs. Carlyle.”

The old woman’s head jerks up. In one swift movement, she swipes her cheeks dry. It would be as if tears never fell at all, were it not for her wan face and red-rimmed eyes.

“The baby,” is the first thing out of her mouth. “Is she gone?”

Cleo, Anne’s startled brain supplies. “Yes, Phillip brought her with him to… get some ice cream. Those two are always so close, you know, it’s impossible to separate them.”

Mrs. Carlyle chuckles. It’s a hollow sound.

Will’s large, uncertain eyes flicker up to her, and Anne steals herself. The sooner they can get out of here and leave this tragic house behind, the better. “Thank you for your hospitality. We all hope for your speedy recovery, Mrs. Carlyle.”

“Anne,” Mrs. Carlyle says, all of a sudden, as if her words are a surprise even to herself. “Call me Constance, please.”

Anne’s eyebrows shoot up. She cannot believe what she’s hearing.

“You are my daughter-in-law, after all. My son loves you. And you love him. You have a family together… so, please. Call me Constance.”

This was the last thing Anne expected to hear today. She anticipated a lot when entering the Carlyles’ home, and thought she’d steeled her armor against just as much. She was prepared for biting words, insults, all-out brawls. Never in a million years did she imagine _acceptance._

Sure, she’s not being welcomed into the Carlyle fold with open arms; but it is an olive branch. Anne is not too prideful to accept it.

“Constance,” she echoes, and the old woman smiles.

“You have… beautiful children,” Constance murmurs; she seems to chew over her words for a very long moment before speaking. “I know I have no right to ask.”

 _You really don’t,_ Anne thinks, but holds her tongue.

“I’m not sure how much time I have left, but whatever it is… I would very much like for us to have a relationship with our grandchildren.”

Was this why such an opening was handed to her? Is Anne seen as nothing more than an obstacle whose favor Constance must win to gain access to the rest of the family, Phillip included? This seems like the most rational explanation for such sudden kindness; Anne knows that, like it or not, it’s probably true. Yet when she looks into her mother-in-law’s eyes, pain and loneliness seems to brim out of them like a flooded river. She does not cry in front of Anne, but she still feels; intense, visceral emotion.

Somehow Anne cannot stomach leaving this woman alone, with her prejudices and illnesses, and her loneliness. The thought makes her feel sick.

Still, it isn’t up to her.

“I’d like that too,” she replies honestly. “But I will have to talk to my husband.”

Constance wilts, like a dying flower; the spark of hope inside her fades away. “Of course,” she says, voice flat.

She’s given up on her son already, Anne realizes, and that makes her angrier than anything else. Anne knows better than to _ever_ give up on Phillip Carlyle, and his ridiculous, irrational, endless goodness. Phillip is a much better man than his parents realize, or deserve.

This is why Anne knows they will be back to visit again.

“We’ll see,” is all she says. “Goodbye, Constance.”

She reaches once more for Will’s hand; but, to Anne’s surprise, her son breaks away. He rushes forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, to reach his grandmother’s side and clasp her hand.

“Feel better soon, Grandmama,” he says in that earnest, quiet way of his, that always makes Anne wonder if she hasn’t given birth to an angel. (Will knows perfectly well the effect he can have, and uses it to great effect.)

His charm works just as well on Constance. She lights up again, eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, Anne catches a glimpse of the woman she must have been, once — young, flush-cheeked and happy to be alive. When she smiles at Will, she looks like she’s returned to herself.

“Goodbye, my dear,” she says, pressing his hand for a brief moment before releasing it. She looks at Anne. “Goodbye.”

Gently, Anne takes her son’s hand. She leads him from the room, down the stairs, and out of the house that his father grew up in.

She gets the feeling that they will return again someday soon.


End file.
